“The boy has done well for himself,” Father said. “In fact, he’s really quite clever. He took his knowledge of writing and started teaching it to other poor boys in the streets of Byblos. Now they call themselves scribes, and they write things for people. The regular scribes were outraged and tried to get it stopped, but since they weren’t using cuneiform, they weren’t actually doing the same thing, or so the judge ruled. And since our writing system is so much easier to learn—so few characters to memorize!—Belbai can train his boy-scribes in no time, and soon they were all over the city, offering their services for even the most casual messages, and at a half the normal price. Now he’s rich. He owns a house. His mother has servants of her own.”

“From something he stole from us,” Laban wrote.

“I don’t recall ever trying to keep this a secret,” said Father. “It’s a gift of God. And even though it was intended for writing the holy words, I don’t think it offends God that we use these letters to help a deaf man hear—or to help a poor lad prosper in a faraway city.”

Rebekah took Father’s view of it—she didn’t see what Laban was so angry about. It was a little mad of Belbai to think there might be a chance that Father would let him have Rebekah as a wife, but she certainly didn’t begrudge him his ambition or the prosperity that came from it. Indeed, it was ambition that had gotten him in trouble in the first place, only now it was working for him instead of against him.

And it was flattering that the thing he wanted to do was marry the girl he had once longed for in camp.

When she told all this to Mother, she took a darker view. “Unless of course he was brooding and seeking vengeance and hoped to have you as his wife in order to mistreat you.”

“Oh, Mother, how can you even think that?”

“There are many husbands who beat their wives for less reason than that,” said Mother. “No, Pillel was right. He should have had the boy killed without consulting your father first. Bethuel is too merciful for his family’s good. This boy is clearly obsessed with you. He’ll cause you harm someday.”

“Or he loves me,” said Rebekah.

“You say that as if you think it’s not the same thing,” said Mother, amused.

“Love and obsession? Tenderness and harm?”

“The man who hurt me worst in my life,” said Mother, “was the one who loved me most.”

And, when she thought about it, Rebekah realized that she could say the same thing.

What was love, then? Something to be feared and shunned, because it caused so much pain?